Prisoner: Y
by onelildustbunni
Summary: Prisoner is an AU trilogy about the New X-men characters Hellion and X-23.What if Charles Xavier and his X-men had never existed? What if humanity decided to take care of the mutant menace for once and for all? Read author note in header.
1. Chapter 1

* * *

**  
The Prisoner Trilogy**

* * *

**Prisoner: Y **

_Prisoner_ is an alternate universe fan fiction trilogy about the New X-men characters Hellion and X-23.

What if Charles Xavier and his X-men had never existed? What if humanity decided to take care of the  
mutant menace for once and for all? _Prisoner_ is told in three parts as a work of speculative fiction by a  
mutant anthropologist of the Hope era, imagining what life may have been like for the three pivotal historical  
figures that prevented a mutant apocalypse.

~**NOTE**~

This fiction series is rated NC-17. This is the only chapter of Prisoner: Y that will be posted on ff . n e t,  
although the story is 6 chapters long, because of its rating. To read the rest, follow the link to prisoner on  
my author page, onelildustbunni, or type in h t t p : / / prisoner . forever . as (remove spaces).

Please do not review for chapters beyond this one using f f . n e t. Instead, post on the forum (link on main page)  
created for reviewing. That way, you may feel free to refer to scenes or ask questions without censorship.

Hope you like it! ~ onelildustbunni

* * *

**-Series Prologue-**

* * *

The following articles are speculative fiction based on factual evidence of events occurring between the period of 2000 and 2015 B.H. (or A.D. according to history).  
The location is thought to be what is now Hope's Field, but at the time was known as the Westchester Internment Camp in Westchester, New York. This is one of  
two possible sites; however, several files were recovered from the Westchester camp strongly support the likelihood of the events having occurred there, as this  
camp offered records of having interned both a Y-21-A and a X-23-A, although the personal files associated with X-23-A's record have been destroyed. Therefore  
the identity of X cannot be proven.

Y-21-A was known to be Julian Keller, a mutant with (unexplored) alpha level telekinesis. Physical records indicate him to be 5'10 in height, weight of 170 lbs.,  
Caucasian, with black hair and blue eyes at time of internment. This individual was interned at the age of sixteen, and was referred to the government officials  
by a relative (records indicate a Mrs. Elizabeth Keller, presumed to be his mother; it is unknown if she was his birth mother or a stepmother) to ensure family  
safety. Records note that his family was under observation for concealed mutants, but none were found. All records of the Keller family disappear after  
2008 B.H. (A.D.); either a fake alias was assumed, possibly combined with relocation, or the family may have been assassinated, either by the government  
during the middle age of the extermination, or as a revenge act during the transition to the year of Hope.

X-23-A remains a mystery. There are many possible identities for this individual; even at the time they were not sure of her true alias. What is factual is the  
data from her physical records and other records. She possessed several powers—a total of six adamantium coated bone claws (two in each hand and one  
in each foot, stored in her forearms and inside her feet, extendable and retractable at will through the skin between the knuckles); an aggressive healing  
factor, proven capable of healing gunshot wounds; and enhanced senses (in all five areas), as well as heightened agility, reflexes and speed. She was 5'7 in  
height, weight of 125 lbs., Caucasian, with black hair and green eyes at time of internment. She was interned at fifteen years of age, and had a notable criminal  
record under several aliases. At the time of her capture, she worked as a street walker in the sex trade near the New York metropolis area. She was also wanted  
for 117 murders, many of which were thought to be for mercenary jobs. Records note that she carried several fake passports: Kennedy Green of Nebraska,  
Laura Kinney of Arizona, and Wanda Stills of Idaho. It is possible that she possessed more, but these were found on her person during the arrest, and kept on  
file should orders come that the internees be released.

The second alias is speculated to be the most likely to be true of the three choices; the name Laura Kinney has been tied to the Weapon X cloning project, which  
would have commenced roughly sixteen years prior to the internment, meaning that Laura Kinney would have been about the age recorded on the internment file  
for X-23-A. It is also to be noted that this clone of Weapon X bore the alias X-23, as she was the twenty-third attempt in the series. A total of fifty clones had been  
planned, but the previous twenty-two clones expired in gestation, and clones 24 through 50 were destroyed by X-23 in a bid for freedom (the treatment of the clone  
by the facility was inhumane). This individual's existence is not well documented and remains a legend, which is why X-23 cannot be confirmed to be the identity of  
X-23-A. It should also be noted that X-23's mother was killed by her hand due to a trigger scent, and this agrees with some of the actions and attitudes of X-23-A.

For the purposes of this narrative work, it will be assumed that X-23-A was, indeed, X-23 of the Weapon X cloning project.

This work of fiction is, again, a reconstruction, made by historians that wish to speculate on the creation of Hope and the beginning of Hope's era. Every effort has  
been made to ensure its accuracy, when facts are available; many inconsistencies still occur and remain unexplained. What experiences did Y-21 endure? Where they  
more or less inhumane than portrayed here? How did the two individuals really meet and exist, amidst the heavy security of the internment camp? How did their story end?

The decision of whether the events here occurred is left up to the reader.

With humble thanks to:

Raine Lin

Samantha Olson

Jeffrey Gates

David Alleyne, Society of Pre-Hope History

_ - The Author_

* * *

**prologue**

* * *

It was a beautiful September day. That was the last pleasant thing he'd noticed, would notice for a long time. The blue sky, clear and pure like tropical water. The kind he'd seen  
on vacation with his parents in the Caribbean, last summer. He had _finally _been old enough to go, at sixteen, something that made him feel grown-up. Not left with the nanny, but  
allowed to go with his parents and his older brother, to sit on the pale white sand and watch girls go by.

He'd only been 'aware' of girls for about two years now. Before that, it had been normal boy stuff—fast cars, weapons, military. Sports. He'd always been the best at everything,  
and he loved to make it known. He had been thrilled to find _another_ area to succeed in, when he began to pay more attention to his female counterparts; however, he'd found it  
different than the other interests he had. Not all girls were interested in him. It was a challenge.

He didn't give up, because he _knew_ he was different. Powerful. When he turned fifteen, he discovered that could do things that other boys his age couldn't do, something people  
didn't believe until he showed them.

On that day, though, he didn't feel like being different was a _good_ thing. Not when he opened the door—the big oak door—and walked into the marble hallway—in which stood  
two armed soldiers, with his mother.

"Mom?" he'd asked in a small voice.

His mother had tried to smile at him. Had smiled at him, her pale blue eyes twinkling in the delicately made up face. "Sweetheart…it's for the best."

Everything about her was made up, he realized. Her life was made up, with delicate cosmetics hiding ugly truths.

_His_ life was made up, too.

_Ffflpt. _His eyes had rolled back in his head and he'd seized on the ground, still conscious, still afraid. He has recognized the symbols on the soldiers' uniforms.

He couldn't believe his parents had sold him out.

His own _mother._

* * *

**-1-**

* * *

He blinks away the thick, sticky mucus in between his eyelids. He feels heavy, and thirsty, and itchy, but he can't move.

Move. Movement.

He watches the tattoo needle as it approaches his skin, his gag biting into his cheeks, forcing a smile he doesn't feel. The man holding the needle doesn't look anything  
like an artist. He is a plain, older man, with a sour face. He looks like he enjoyed his job, though.

"GRRRRRRRRAH!" He snaps his head back as the needle stabs him, over and over, grazing over extremely sensitive spots. Pounding his skin into a bloody pulp. He is tied to  
the chair, and something _else_ is tied, too. He isn't different anymore. He can't move things.

Cotton. He tastes cotton, and blood, from his nose. Someone, earlier, slammed the heel of their palm into his nasal bone, causing it to rupture and bleed. It is now aching dully,  
no where near as sharp as the fire vibrating up his bones as the tattoo takes shape over his inner forearm.

"STRP!" he yelps through the gag. "STRRP! STRRRRRRP IT HRRRTS!"

"God, will you shut him _up?_" the man says. "I'm going to end up branding him an X this way. See how _that_ goes over."

_WHRUMP! _A heavy rifle butt makes contact with the side of his head.

* * *

**-x-**

* * *

He is awake again, his head lolling on his limp neck. He raises it slowly, afraid of the pain. What if moving makes it worse? What if his head comes off?

He certainly won't be different anymore if it does. Just a headless corpse.

He _is_ moving. He is in the back of a dark van that smells of urine and decay. Festering wounds. His shoulders cramp behind him, his wrists aching under the  
heavy rope restraints. He realizes that the mouth gag has been removed. "There must be some mistake!" he shouts, struggling. "I'm not just _anybody! _I'm  
a _Keller!_ My father will—"

No one answers him. His voice is muffled; as soon as the words leave his mouth, they disappear. He has never felt so alone, so lost. He is really and truly scared.

"Let me GOOO!" he shouts, fighting as hard as he can in a hysterical manner, and getting nowhere. His situation seems full of _no._

"HELP ME! SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP MEE!"

He wonders if it's all a dream. A bad dream. The truck lurches as it stops; was someone finally coming for him, having heard his cries for help?

No—the truck simply starts again.

Two days. He is hungry, starving, and he has to go to the bathroom again, but the smell is already bad enough that he can detect it through his blood-caked  
nostrils. No one has opened the door, no one has fed him. No one has given him water. He thinks longingly of home. He'd been planning to go to the kitchen  
and pour himself a glass of refrigerated soda, when he'd encountered the soldiers. He'd thought he'd been thirsty, but now he knows what he felt  
then was _nothing. _

He leans his head back against the wall of the van and tries not to cry, because that will make him thirstier. And a pussy. But it is hard, and in the end he fails,  
adding more bodily fluids to the sticky mess.

Three days. He slips in and out of consciousness, falling over at one point. He is too weak to sit back up, having a concussion from the several head wounds he  
now sports, so he simply lies in his own filth. Something feels so wrong. His body doesn't feel right. They've done something—they've taken his power away. He  
feels dull and lifeless without it, all injuries and malnourishment aside.

On the fourth day, he is aware that the van has not moved for a long, long time. He panics and begins to yell again, thinking that they have walked off and left  
him. Or maybe they're dead, and he's going to die, alone in the dark. He rolls around on the floor, away from his spot, and forces himself to his knees, determined  
to find something to cut the bonds with. There is hope—there is always hope. He's special, no matter what they've done.

"GRR!" he says as he clambers about.

The doors to the van open, and he squeezes his eyes shut against the barrage of light that blinds him, makes his head scream with pain.

"Shut the fuck up, mutie!" whoever opened the door snaps. "If I hear one more god-damn sound, I'll forget about even taking you to the camp, you understand? I have  
the authority to shoot you point-blank and deposit you in the woods."

He opens his eyes slightly. He needs to see. A man in uniform, a Purifier uniform, with that horrible mutated cross. Yes—they think mutants are horrible—so does he.

The mutants in question are different, though.

They're the mutants, to him. Mutated beyond human compassion into something else entirely. Monsters?

Beyond the man is what he wants to see though. He is terrified—his eyes widen. He is finally silent, realizing that his family name isn't going to pull him out of this grave,  
no, not this one. A long, endless train of vans, identical vans, with men in uniform at the wheel. They are on the interstate, creeping forwards. And in the vans are others.

Others like him—different people. Mutants.

"Christ." The door slams shut and all is quiet again.

* * *

**-x-**

* * *

_Click. _

The door opens again, six days later. He doesn't look up, hanging his head and staring sullenly at the floor he can now see. It doesn't matter.

"Get up." A rifle pokes him in the ribs and now he looks up; the man is in the back of the van. He falls onto his knees and remains there, too weak. He is  
grabbed by his restrained wrists and dragged across the floor, his knee catching an unprotected nail head and sustaining a flesh wound.

_Crunch._ He drops like a stone to the ground, a distance of four feet, from the truck bed to the gravel. He moves his face slightly to the side and spits out  
pebbles, amazed that he didn't break any teeth on impact. That will probably come soon enough though.

"Pathetic," the man says, looking down at him from the truck bed. He jumps down and lands on the gravel with a _crunch, _then picks him up by his wrists again  
and drags him along the rough surface, ignoring his cries of pain.

* * *

**-x-**

* * *

"New. For cleanup. Fucking thing pissed itself and bled all over my truck," the man grunts, kicking him on the floor in the stomach. Not in anger. Just with mild  
annoyance, that he's a thing, and has to be such a burden. He feels humiliated, but he can't even pick himself off the ground because his legs are tied at the  
ankles like he's going to be roasted on a spit.

What would want to eat _him_, in the condition he's in?

"Typical," a new voice murmurs. A man. "Well, let's get the hose on it. Go and sign out with delivery. Least you get a commission…good rate too, that  
was a pretty fast round-up."

"You know it." Scuffling, sound of pen on paper.

"Alright. See you later, Jim. Take care of yourself out there."

Footsteps.

_Wham!_ Right in his side, a boot. He curls around it in a fetal position, his eyebrows drawn together and blood running out of his mouth, but he refuses to cry, to  
snivel. He would've done that a week ago, when his mother betrayed him, but he had a lot of time to think in the van.

A hand reaches down for what he thinks is his restraint, but instead he feels a sharp pain in the wrist that he can't see. A needle. His heart pounds in his ear,  
they're injecting him with something and he doesn't know what it is. A nightmare.

The world slows, a few minutes later, feels like glue. He is dimly aware that his ties have been severed and that he is being hauled to his feet. And that his  
clothes—his favorite shirt—is being cut away, with scissors. Despite the tranquilizer, he is scared as the scissors pause near his boxers. He knows what the  
man is thinking. He catches the man's eye. _Please, don't_, he thinks, but his jaw is too stiff to get the words out. All that comes out is "_Urrrr…" _like a growling  
dog. A growling, stupid animal.

_WHAM! _His head snaps to the side as the man backhands him. "Don't you _look_ at me, abomination," the man shouts. Spit hitting him in the face.

The man bends over again, the cold scissors touching his leg and slicing through the fabric. But in the end, all he does is strip them away.

He hangs his head, his eyes closed. The man shoves him in the shoulder blade with a leather-gloved hand, and he stumbles forwards, into a room of white  
tiles, almost losing his balance. He looks up slowly, and through doubled vision sees shower heads.

_Gas?_ He wonders, his heart beating in his ear again. He wants to throw up but there's nothing in his stomach, plus his throat seems frozen.

No, it's just a shower room. He stumbles into the wall, having forgotten to stop his legs in his drugged state, and he slides down it, leaving a trail of blood  
and pus from his new tattoo on the white surface as he sinks to the floor in a heap.

The man enters the room, and an enormous jet of ice-cold water suddenly bursts out of a hose he is carrying. It stings, quite badly, and his entire body numbs,  
then begins to ache. He closes his eyes. This is worse than the filth.

* * *

**-x-**

* * *

With blue lips and a thin paper outfit (shorts), he is led to another room and forced into a big chair. A machine starts—_wurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr—_and is applied to his head,  
making his skull vibrate as it slices away the last thing he has left of his former life, his hair. He is made to watch in the mirror, but he doesn't show any emotion. He  
wonders how they could hope for emotion when they've pumped him too full of drugs to _feel._

"Y'like that, you damn Y?" the man asks, pushing the razor in purposely so it nicks his scalp. He winces. He felt _that._

"Didn't think so. Y, you motherfucker, why should I care? Your kind goddamn killed my wife. Put your monster seed in her. The thing clawed its way out and she bled to  
death." The barber wrinkles his nose. "I could make _you_ bleed to death, slit your throat, hell, jam _this_ down your throat and watch you twitch."

"_Urrr,_" he says, his eyes wide with fear. "N-no, ppl..pleeze…"

"To hell with you," the barber says, turning off his razor. "Get the fuck out of my chair and thank your lucky stars that my blade's too dull."

He stumbles out of the chair as the next guard grabs his arm.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **This is the last chapter of Prisoner Y that will be posted here. All further chapters will be on the website due to their content rating, so if you like this story, please check the site. Again:

**h t t p : / / prisoner . forever . as **

Remove the spaces. Enjoy!!

**

* * *

-2-  


* * *

**

In a big room, with thousands of other people, in thin white garments like him, their heads shorn, their arms tattooed. Covered in cuts and bruises. People  
of all different appearances—many not even normal colors, or shapes. There are some that look like piles of rock, dinosaurs, rainbows.

_What happened?_ He wonders, his eyes slowly taking it in. _So fast...we were safe and then…_

He reaches up and touches a facial wound, marveling at the fact that he can _move_ his arm again, after so long. He'd almost forgotten he had them.

He sits, cross-legged on the ground and watches the others curiously. Many talk to each other, others don't. There are couples, sitting together. He wonders  
if they knew each other before or if they have just met and cling together so tightly for reassurance. To his astonishment, he sees couples having sex, in the  
open, and he averts his eyes, even though he secretly wants to look. Now doesn't seem like the right time to be a boy, although that's what he is.

Or maybe he isn't. He's not sure anymore.

Gradually, he starts to _listen._ He doesn't like what he hears. His blood freezes, cold, and his fingers are numb.

Murmurs. Fearful tones. "The government _passed_ it, I saw it on the news…just before they came…I mean it was obvious…the whole Mutant-Registration  
act bullshit…no hope…"

"Directive…"

"Government..."

"…U.N…"

"…worldwide…"

Passed it. It sounds like a bowel movement. He draws his legs up to his chest. So this isn't an isolated incident—this isn't some horrible experiment,  
some private, wealthy organization that is just taking whatever they can get.

They are being exterminated. By the government. By the world.

The world's had enough and they aren't welcome anymore.

"Blamed for the power plants on the coast…the radiation…toxic spills…the wastelands, all our fault, apparently…"

He rubs his head, the stubble itchy, especially where he has been cut by the razor. His forehead is wrinkled. Just a week ago…a week ago, he was  
a privileged person…the son of billionaires, one of only two children. An heir. He'd seen the news, read the newspapers best he could, because he  
was interested in others of his kind. His father had done his best to keep him uninformed.

He'd always thought he would be safe. Billions of dollars was like a security blanket, a cushion, bail money that would keep him out.

"_Sweetheart…it's for the best." _

His mother—telling him, in fewer words, that those billions of dollars were worth more to her than his life. He makes a sour face, grinding his teeth  
together and stares off into space, flexing his hands as they hang between his knees.

"Whatchoo lookin' at?" a man asks, his legs suddenly blocking his gaze.

"Wha—nothing," he says.

"You looked at me! I sawed it!" The man bends over and grabs him by his chin, for lack of a shirt collar to grab. "Why you lookin' at me, man? You  
got some kinda _problem?_ You freakier than the other freaks here?!"

"Uh—no," he says, trying to yank his face away. "Sorry, I was just thinking. Didn't mean to look at you or anything."

"WHY THE FUCK WERE YOU LOOKING AT ME?!" the man starts screaming, twisting his hand violently and causing him to fly to the side, into a mattress.

"Ooof!" he says, exhaling involuntarily.

"WHAT THE FUCK?! WHAT THE FUCK?! ARE YOU GAY OR SOMETHING?!" the man pursues, and he looks up, his face pale. The man has friends, all  
with a slightly crazy look in their eyes.

"N-no—I swear I didn't—"

They are upon him, kicking surprisingly hard. One has a foot made of something like rock, and he feels it dig into his stomach. He doubles over, involuntary  
tears leaking from his eyes at the pain. There's no way he can fight back—he's about two thirds of each man's size, he is injured to begin with, weak and  
malnourished, and there are about _five _men.

The rock-foot draws back, ready to kick him in the face. His blue eyes widen as he realizes what _that_ will do. Lights out, for good.

"Leave him alone."

The men stop, turn, and he looks through their legs too, confused. There is a girl—a girl, about a foot shorter than _himself_—equally thin, her fists bigger  
than her scrawny arms. She looks like she should be in a casket—a mass grave.

Except her eyes are horribly alive in her pale face, brilliant green.

"Oh yeah?" the leader of the pack asks, but he sounds a bit different.

Fear?

Respect?

A few of his friends have backed away.

"What _you_ gonna do?" the man asks.

The girl holds up her fist. "Inserted through your small intestine, draw up through sternum and sever cardiac muscle in half, aorta ruptured and spread,  
death would occur in approximately five seconds."

He can't see what she's talking about. She's like a toothpick, and he feels the bizarre desire to laugh, or to tell her to move on and let him get what's  
coming, before these crazy fucks decide to rape her on top of everything.

"…" the man holds up his hands. "Aight, aight. Jesus. Man gets hungry."

_Man gets hungry. _He looks up, terrified. Were they going to…

They are gone, and the girl is still there, watching him. "Get up," she says.

"I-I'm hurt. I need to lie down." He wipes blood off his mouth.

"No." The girl moves towards him and grabs the arm he has just made the movement with. "You are conscious. Sit up. You are foolish to show such  
vulnerability in this place."

"I've been through a lot! You have no idea," he says angrily.

She pulls him upwards, despite the fact that he is resisting. Despite the fact that she is a toothpick. She is strong, deceivingly strong. She is silent  
regarding his comment, and close up he can see scars on her skin. Her hands are horrifically deformed between the knuckles, with bumps of clotted,  
partially healed scars.

He wonders if he misjudged her. He does have a tendency to misjudge people. Only now is he really owning up to that, being honest with himself,  
that he doesn't know as much as he thought he knew.

"Uh…thanks," he says, realizing he owes her gratitude. She just saved him from having his skull literally bashed in by the stone foot.

She is silent, studies him. She crouches down in front of him and fixes him with her vivid green eyes. "How old are you?" she asks.

He blinks. "Uh…sixteen." His voice cracks. He pauses. "You?"

She doesn't answer that enquiry. "Are your parents here?"

"No," he says, his tone unintentionally full of annoyance. He doesn't like when people remind him that he is _young, _and that his parents should do  
everything for him. He wants to be grown up, independent.

At least, he wanted to.

He hasn't considered how he feels now. That will come later.

"You are alone." This is a statement.

"Yes." This is his answer.

The girl blinks and leans closer for a moment. He crosses his eyes, trying to keep her in focus as she smells him, and she smiles slightly.

She might have been pretty, once, he thinks, when she smiles. She doesn't look so dead, like a dried husk.

"You do not presently have infections," she says seriously.

"My arm," he says, looking down at the angry sore that is the tattoo. It's covered in shiny white fluid, and the skin is red and bloody in areas.

She takes his hand and examines the area critically. "It will heal," she says finally. "It will scab over. They all become infected, at first. You should  
wash it with antibacterial soap, pat it dry, and apply antibacterial cream."

"Sure…I'm assuming they provide you with all that," he says sarcastically.

Blink, blink of her green eyes. "No."

"Okay then," he says, but he doesn't pull his hand away. It feels good to hold her hand—it's warm and muscular, although she's bony like a  
fish. And he realizes that she is the first person to show concern for him, respect as a human being, in over a week. Suddenly his eyes well  
up and he grips her hand hard.

"You are hurting me," she says.

"I'm s-sorry," he says, looking away angrily. "I…they…my m-mom…"

She doesn't pull her hand away, just sits and watches him. "Was she killed?"

"N-no," he says, blinking. Realizing she thinks his mother _protected _him. "She sold me out…she _told_ them where to find me…I came home and  
she h-handed me over…sold me out to keep her m-money…"

The girl shows no change in expression. "You should not cry. You are displaying weakness," she says, instead of something comforting.

But somehow this _is_ comforting, her bland recommendation. He sniffles, but the tears stop and he stares back at her blearily. "What's  
your n-name?" he asks.

She pauses. "I am internee X-23-A."

"NO! Not _their_ name," he says, a little more powerfully than he meant. "Your _real_ name. I'm Julian." He doesn't bother with his last name. It  
doesn't mean much to him anymore, after what has happened.

"You do not have another name." The girl turns over his arm again, looking at the tattoo. "You are internee Y-21-A, signifying that you are  
male, number 21 on the threat list for your gender, and an alpha class mutant."

"To hell with that!" He yanks his hand away. "That's letting them _win!_ They can't win! I'll die before I give up my identity."

"You will die, then," the girl says, expressionless. "You must remember your designation. You will be punished if you ever allow  
yourself to forget it."

"You're crazy. You've been here a while, haven't you?"

She pauses. "I was one of the first to arrive, yes," she says, unoffended.

"How long?"

"Two months," she says. "They began to prepare this internment camp when they were still in the negotiations process."

"What the—that's totally illegal!" he bursts, the first thing that comes to his mind.

A stupid thing.

"HAHAHA!" The girl throws back her head and laughs, startling him. Displaying two missing teeth on her upper jaw. He wouldn't have thought  
she knew _how_ to laugh, as serious as she is. The laugh is over quickly, but she still smiles. "You will see how it is here," she says, still amused.

She stands up.

"Wait—where are you going?" he asks, a little desperately.

"It is almost meal time. Bring your bowl and follow me."

* * *

**-x-**

**

* * *

**

He stares at the potato in his steel bowl, slimy and wet and horrible. He didn't know food like this _existed_. It was so cheap to get properly cooked food.

"What—"

The girl pulls him along quickly by his free hand. "Do not stand in lineups. You will be pushed, and probably injured," she hisses.

He follows her, and eventually they reach the concrete wall. He watches her as she slides her behind down it to sit, the bowl held in front of her in her  
long fingers. He wonders what she would look like with hair.

"Uh—should I get some forks, or…" he says.

The girl shakes her head. "They do not allow us sharp objects."

"Oh." He hesitates, then sits down beside her, pressing his bare leg against her bony and equally bare one. He'd thought he was malnourished, but  
he was still pretty strong and healthy compared to _her._ Her thigh was warm.

She picks up the potato and bites into it, with the side of her mouth that is not missing teeth. Holding the potato with her scarred, malformed hand.

"What happened?" he blurted.

She looks at him, chewing.

"To your hands."

She pauses, considering him. Then she swallows her potato chunk in a large lump. "Adamantium plating was installed in my hands and my feet to  
prevent popping of my claws, in addition to the disconnection of the neuromuscular junction that would allow the trigger such an event," she explains.  
"They could not just remove the claws. This procedure would result in my arms being atrophied and useless." She's so cool, so unconcerned.

He glances down, and sees the same horrible scaring between her big toe and middle toe. "Jesus," he says. "You have claws?"

"Yes," she says. "Do not tell anyone about the plating," she adds calmly. "It is not common knowledge, and affords me with some protection."

"I won't," he says, picking up his potato. He realizes he is too hungry to _not_ eat it, and suddenly he crams it towards his mouth like a ravenous dog.

"Eat slowly!" she rebukes. "You will damage your stomach that way!"

"Mmph," he says, his mouth already full of potato (which is still raw in some areas). "Can' hllp id. Really hungry."

"You will not be later," she warns.

She is right. Later, he needs the washroom and she accompanies him. There is no privacy—they are a series of buckets on the ground—and she stays to  
keep him safe. He is embarrassed, but she makes no comment, does not seem amused. She doesn't even say 'told you so'.

Nightfall. There are no mattresses, no blankets, and it is cold. He breaks into feverish chills and curls on his side in a fetal position, already weakened  
from his violent bathing of earlier, and the injuries sustained throughout the last week. His arm stings, along with other cuts, and he feels nauseous.

He has a headache.

The girl curls up along his spine, pressing her bony front against it. Her breasts are almost nonexistent, small bumps on her chest. He stops—is she  
coming on to him? He's never gotten this close to a girl before—actually sleeping with one—even if she is ugly. It's dark and he doesn't really care,  
at the moment. He can pretend. He tries to roll over smoothly, to hold her instead, because it seems weird to be held; she lays a hand on his shoulder.

"No. I will lay along your spine. Your shivers will stop."

Oh. He lays still again, and a few minutes later, at the verge of falling asleep, he realizes she is right. He relaxes and sleeps—real sleep—another thing  
his body has been craving for a while. Even if he is sleeping on concrete.

For a week, it is like this. One potato per day, a concrete floor to sleep on, a bucket to toilet in. No baths, no showers, no first aid. His wounds scab  
anyway; the tattoo begins to heal. He does not shiver at night because his spine is kept warm, and listening to her advice he does not bolt down the  
potato any longer, rather taking his time and eating it in small bites.

Sometimes they sit in silence, sometimes they talk. The girl asks him a few questions about his life before, but still refuses to call him by his real  
name. It is always Y-21 to her (he notes, triumphantly, that she has dropped the A). He calls her X, sometimes, since it seems like a nickname,  
kind of. He doesn't know anything about her anyway—she could be anyone. The daughter of kings, a whore off the streets. Maybe she will give  
him STDs if they do anything. He thinks it's unlikely to happen, at least that's what he thinks during the day. Free from the delirium of fever and  
in full lighting, he acknowledges to himself that he will _never_ see her as anything more than a friend. She is too ugly and deformed for him to feel  
physical attraction.

At night, however, he forgets how she looks, and his mind wanders. If his hand tries to wander, too, she stops it in process and lays it back at his  
side, preventing him from groping her bones (which is what he will find if she lets him continue).

They never speak of these nighttime interactions, mostly because they happen when both parties are almost asleep.

Then the whole camp changes.

* * *

**-x-**

**

* * *

  
**

"X'S HERE!" Bellows the guard, gesturing with his rifle to the long line of skinny females. "Y'S THERE! YOU HAVE THREE MINUTES TO COMPLY! ANYONE  
OUT OF LINE WILL BE SHOT BETWEEN THE EYES!"

The girl shoves his food bowl into his hands. "Hurry," she says, her voice serious like her eyes. "Do as he says."

"But—" he holds his empty bowl against his chest, like a hat. "Am I going to see you again?" he asks.

The girl looks down. "No."

Silence. He reaches out and touches her shoulder. "Thanks. You're—you're a good friend. You don't deserve to be here."

"Neither do you," she says, and he is surprised to see that her eyes are wet. A tear rolls down her cheek and he catches it on his finger, then realizes  
what he needs to do. He leans in and kisses her lightly.

"Thanks," he says again when he pulls away, his eyes wet too. They stand for a moment in silence, like their friendship is an actual person whose death  
they are mourning together.

"ONE MINUTE!" The guard bellows again, shooting into the air. Raised voices, fearful, and scampers. The girl turns and runs to the X line, leaving him.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Hey all! Posted this chapter here so I could also share some news: I've figured out where to host this story! h t t p : / / groups . yahoo . com / group / prisonerxyz /  
Join that group, and all story updates will be e-mailed to you (or you can set it so you can just check the website for updates; I've posted instructions). No more updates  
will be posted on ff . net because I'm afraid of violating policy (it gets explicit fairly soon).

Cheers! ~ onelildustbunni

* * *

**-3- **

**

* * *

  
**

The Y line is lead to a shabby building, with grey walls and concrete floors, but it is filled with rows of cots. He can barely believe his eyes—_bunk cots. _With blankets. And cheap  
curtains in between them. Nothing else, but still. They are assigned cots, so no internees are left out.

His first night in the cot is like heaven. He has the bottom bunk, by a window. He wonders if X got one, too, and if she's thinking of him. He can still remember how her mouth felt,  
two little pink pillows, potato flavored (which he realizes is not very romantic). He realizes that he has thought more about this kiss than any of the other five or so he'd experienced  
before, probably because it was more meaningful. It was goodbye.

A few nights go by, then he hears whispering in the cots around him—internees introducing themselves to their friends. The guy sleeping on top of him dips his head over the side  
and begins to whisper to _him._ His skin is golden colored, and he seems friendly. He says his name is Josh, and that he was a healer on a mutant rights force, before all of this happened.

He likes the other boy, and gradually gets to know a few of the others as well. They whisper and joke every night about the guards, imagining what they'd do to them if they could  
get their powers back. He becomes the center of the group, having virtually the best power for revenge (before a boy named Santo, who is made out of rocks).

**-x- **

Exercise. Once a day, all the males are taken out, in groups of five, for a walk around the quarters building. They pass by a chain-link fence that divides them from another building,  
which he has assumed are the female quarters, having seen a few hanging around it. He watches the building carefully through his window every night, hoping to see a female (about  
any female at this point, it has been a month since the change and he has not seen one since then) but cannot make out anything.

At the fence, something catches his eye, and he turns, last in the line of boys being walked. There—his heart skips a beat—X is at the fence, her fingers curled into the links, her eyes  
watching him warily. "Keep going," she mouths.

He hesitates, then steps closer to the fence and touches her fingertips through it, just lightly. He'd like to touch her longer, but he must keep up. He knows it would be bad if a  
guard found out about his friendship with X.

X's lips part and she stands there like a deer in the headlights, her eyes frozen on his as their fingers remain connected. Then he turns and walks away, after his friends, after his  
guard, and leaves her clinging to the fence, watching him with her livid green eyes.

**-x- **

"Dude…I _saw_ you today," Josh whispers from the top bunk, his eyes peering over the edge, upside down at him. "With that weird _girl._ Do you know her?"

"X?" he asks, his hands folded on his stomach. "Not well. She helped me when I first came here..." he paused. "She's a bit strange, yeah, but I wouldn't call her _weird._ She's good people."

Josh stares at him. "You haven't heard the stories?" he asks.

He sits up. "Wha? No…there are stories about her?"

"That's _X-23,_ dude," Josh whispers. "She's so dangerous they let her keep her name, so no one would make mistakes. They almost classified her omega, but she wasn't powerful  
enough. She killed, like, a hundred guys before they got her in here."

He raises his eyebrows. "Really? Just a hundred?" He knows Josh elaborates a lot; he tells tall tales.

Josh's eyes narrow. "Fine, don't believe me. I'd stay away from her if I were you."

"I don't have much choice," he points out. "Did _you_ have a piece? Before this, I mean?"

Josh looks dull all of a sudden. "They killed her."

"Oh." He is surprised. "I thought it was still illegal to kill us. Hence the cots."

"Not for long," someone murmurs from a cot on the side. "They'll find a reason soon enough. It ain't that hard."

Everyone is silent.

The silence remains as everyone has fallen asleep. His eyelids grow heavy and he slips into merciful sleep, that takes him away from _here._

"OUT!!!" screams a guard, running in with a machine gun.

Boys tumble out of their bed, startled. He hits the floor, having been immersed deep in a dream. A glance out of the window tells him it's not even dawn yet.

"Everyone up and out! Got work for you hens!" Another soldier announces. The boys blink and rub their eyes, blearily.

"Government sent through the orders that you _earn_ your keep now!"

Dawn finds him sawing away at pieces of metal with a hacksaw in a big, dimly-lit room. He blinks away dream crumbs and tries not to cut off his own digits. It is hard work, and the  
supervising guard takes pleasure in suggesting what will happen to him if he doesn't meet the quota. He tosses another sheet of metal on the pile and tries not to glare at the man.

At noon, they are allowed to stop for ten minutes, and their bowls are filled with a potato each—and, astonishingly, a steamed carrot. He wonders if they are beginning to soften  
up on their views, when Josh whispers they're probably planning for them to work twice as long for that carrot.

He is right. The work extends well into the evening. It is midnight when he finally is allowed to drop the hacksaw. It clatters to the table, and his palm throbs, the skin shiny and  
bubbling. Blistering. He was a rich boy. He has no calluses to protect his skin. In fact, he's _never_ had to do work like this in his life—slave labor.

"Where you think _you're _going, bitch?" the guard asks, a man his age, casually aiming his pistol at his head. He freezes and looks up slowly.

"I thought we were done," he says. His words echo in the now empty workspace.

"You're done when I tell you you're done," the man says. He pauses, smiles slowly. "Aren't you the Keller boy?"

He blinks. Oh, god no, he recognizes him. He used to go to the same school as man. He used to snub him on the playground. This was before his parents decided to send him  
to private school.

"Funny how things work out," the guard continues, the gun barrel pointed right at his forehead, between his eyes. He hears the click, as the guard cocks the gun, preparing  
to shoot. He feels a bead of sweat begin to collect, and he stares back at the man, realizing he could die right here, right now.

Would he be better off?

"Give me a good reason not to kill you right now and be a hero for my country," the guard says between clenched teeth.

"It wouldn't be right," he says, his voice barely coming out.

The guard grins. "That's a bad answer." His finger moves to the trigger.

_Click. Click. Click. _The round is empty.

"Bang," the guard says. "Get the fuck out of here or I'll shoot you for real."

He leaves, quickly.

**-x- **

Time passed on, a month, then another month. He grows thin, emaciated, like those who have been at the camp the longest; at the same time, the hard labor forces what little  
resources he has into forming wiry muscles, making for an odd combination. He's never been in bad shape, but he is definitely the most muscular he has ever been, right now.

The world is waiting for their officials—in their cushy offices, and catered meetings, in their elegant clothing and groomed appearances—to decide the fate of mutantkind. Will they  
exterminate them? Will this be carried out humanely? They are far too expensive to maintain, a burden on their government; hence the forced labor. In the meantime they are  
trying this, to ensure their existence won't cost humanity anything.

This isn't the only factor to consider, however. Omega-level mutants are a real problem—there have been escape stories, of these special individuals overcoming the dampening  
devices and escaping. Entirely too dangerous to be allowed to live and breed. The government argues over whether to execute only O-class mutants, or to exterminate the  
whole she-bang. Wipe their hands of the whole mess. They would have to carefully re-examine their grading system, if selective genocide is chosen.

This would be expensive to research.

Something will have to be decided soon.

He wishes they would be allowed to see the news, to read articles. To know what is going on. All he knows is the few conversations between the guards he and his friends have  
heard rumors of or eavesdropped on personally.

The females, surprisingly, are another source of information. Some Y's have friends in the X sector—women who will do _anything_ to survive, and have found guards to cut deals  
with. He supposes this has always happened, in these situations. He wonders if X has sunk to these levels, and hopes not. He doesn't like the idea of one of the gun-toting  
assholes with his trigger fingers groping her prominent bones.

Another government initiative is put into action—experimentation. A truck arrives, and suddenly both X and Y sectors are full of shouting guards, ordering them out, to line up  
by the wall of the building. There is fear that it is a firing squad, but this does not turn out to be the case.

Across the fence, he can see the females lined up as well. His eyes find X in the lineup. She is unchanged, except for a bruise blossoming over her eye. She stands with her  
back ramrod straight, chin in the air.

A guard walks down each lineup with a list on a clipboard, using the barrel of his gun to point at individuals. People pointed to are hauled away by other guards, some  
with their heels digging in the dirt.

The gun passes by him and his friends. He relaxes as the man points to others—then, on the other side of the fence, he sees the gun point to X-23.

He jerks, ready to run to the fence, but she looks at him—straight at him—as the guard takes her by the shoulder, his hand a claw on her shoulder—and she holds her finger to her lips.

_Be quiet. _

Something about her face is so commanding that he knows she is right.

He didn't think he could do that, but he bites his lip and watches them lead her away, willing himself to be still. It is the hardest thing he's ever had to do.

Later, Josh tells him that they were selected people to experiment on. He is horrified as his friend describes, graphically, just how the subjects are treated. Josh says he busted places  
like that, before. When he was free. He feels worse, like a worthless asshole, staying quiet.

Even though he had no choice.

**-x- **

He doesn't sleep for nights, then sleeps poorly when he finally gives into exhaustion. He dreams. He dreams that she's curled along his spine, but he's cold. His neck feels wet. He rolls  
over and she is dead, with a bullet in between her open eyes, still alive. Still vivid green.

He wakes up sweating every time.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Meh, can't find an alternative publishing spot for this, so I guess I'll post it here. Everything is tasteful anyways. Be warned...this is definitely a NC-17 chapter, with semi-graphic descriptions of romantic scenes (although the naughty bits haven't been explicitly named!)

* * *

**  
-4-**

* * *

Over the next month, a few subjects return, dragged roughly into the quarters by the guards and left to bleed on the floor, covered in open, undressed wounds. It is clear that many of the  
individuals will die. Only four of the injured Y's survive the night. Only two of the Y's that were taken away are still in fair health, and it is whispered that they have healing factors, which  
were activated during the experimentation.

He watches the female quarters every chance he gets, waiting, hoping against hope that he will see X. That she is still alive. He tries to find out which Y's have access to the females, to ask,  
but is unsuccessful. No one wants to get in trouble. Josh tells him to leave it be.

Then, one day, he is being led back to the male quarters, just as the moon breaks through the clouds. He glances to the side as he follows the pack of internees, seeing a van. The back doors  
are open and a guard is reaching in. A newcomer, he thinks. He stops in his tracks as he sees the girl that emerges—she is, perhaps, the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. She has long black  
hair that shines in the moonlight, and skin so pale it is almost white. Her features are perfectly formed. And curves, actual breasts which he has not seen in about half a year. It is obvious she  
has not been at the camp long—she must have been local, because she does not look as if she has been starved at all, or even hurt. On the ground now, she stands straight, surveying her  
surroundings. He wishes he were closer, to take her in properly.

A rifle butt slams into his back, causing him to stumble and almost fall. "Keep moving, you dumb piece of shit!" the guard shouts, furious.

In his cot, he does not fall asleep instantly as he had planned. He scrambles to the window and peers out into the darkness, towards the female complex. There! The girl is being led towards  
the preparations building, where her hair will be shorn and she will be washed with a hose. He bites his lip. It's a shame to cut off all that long, beautiful hair…it's horrible of him to even think  
of it, but all the same he wishes he could see her as she is washed. No, better, naked…for him.

He watches the preparation shed and falls asleep on the window sill.

The next day, as they are being herded out for the workday, he trails by the fence, hoping to catch another glimpse. The guard is busy yelling at someone who has tripped up ahead, hitting  
them with the butt of his rifle.

_Clink._ Beside him—the girl is at the fence, her fingers hooked into the chain links. She has glossy, pink nails with white half-moons, almost a manicured look. And green eyes, brilliant green  
eyes that watch him under thick lashes.

It can't be.

"_X?!" _he whispers, unable to help himself.

She gives what he assumes is a small nod, her lips tilting up slightly at the corners. They're much fuller now—her whole face is.

He reaches through the fence for just a moment—touches her fingertips.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU IDIOTS STANDING AROUND FOR?! GET YOUR THUMBS OUT OF YOUR ASSES AND KEEP MOVING!" The rifle is fired in the air, and he tears himself away, annoyed  
instead of scared. He wants to stay and touch her more, a lot more.

He'd like to snap the guard's neck for interrupting them, which is a dangerous desire.

**-x- **

"DISOBEDIANCE WILL NOT BE TOLERATED!" the guard screams, walking back and forth along the line. Someone has done something—splashed his potato-water in the supervisor's face.

Now they will all pay the price.

His breath catches as the guard pulls his pistol out of his holster and begins to shoot. Blood splatters in the air and hangs there, mist-like in the beams of sunlight leaking through the rafters.

_Blam. Blam. Blam. _Three men are shot in cold blood. The guard walks further down the line—towards him—and he sees it in slow motion, the pistol, the trigger finger as it depresses the  
hateful piece of metal—and the consequent bullet, as it leaves the barrel and passes through Josh's head beside him on the way to the wall behind.

_SPLAT! _Half his face, and his shoulders, is covered in his friend's blood and interstitial fluids. Josh keels straight over on the ground and leaks the rest onto the thirsty, dusty ground at his  
bare feet. He feels hate and vomit rising up in his throat, but Santo beside him raises his hand and places it heavily on his forearm, his eyes pleading him not to.

His death will do no good. It will help no one, no one at all. It might get _everyone_ a bullet in their head. He struggles to understand that martyrs have no place but a shallow grave here. He  
swallows the vomit, because he'll pass out if he loses the little left in his stomach. No one has gotten to eat, because of the incident.

The blood has made them blend in. No one else is shot, and they are sent back to work, trembling and soaked. He almost cuts off his own hand several times, tears streaming down his  
cheeks, and his face aches from contortion.

He _wants_ to die, he realizes. He should have acted out, right then. Rip out the guard's throat with his bare fingers, which are certainly strong enough after all this labor. He'd have been  
shot, for sure, but it would be worth it.

**-x- **

He punches his pillow angrily, the only thing that will not make noise and bring the fucking guards running. He crouches on his bed, realizing that he's never going to see his friend peer over the  
edge again, telling him a tall tale, and he considers _making_ a noise.

That might get everyone killed, though.

He slips into a shallow sleep, almost like unconsciousness. Blacking out. He starts sometime later and looks up at his window for reasons he is uncertain of.

The girl is at the fence, watching him. She beckons with her finger.

Before he would have hesitated, but now he just doesn't care. Let them shoot him. He creeps to the door and peers out, sees that the guard has his back turned and is smoking a cigarette. Very  
quietly he rounds the corner and disappears from view. The side of the quarters, this section of the fence, is unmonitored. He approaches her, his heart beating hard in his chest.

"Wha—" he whispers. She reaches through and places her finger to his lips. Be quiet. He's _always _to be quiet. Her eyes are sad. Maybe she knows what happened. Her finger runs down his lower  
lips, to his chin, and she hooks her finger, pulling him closer. He doesn't want this—kissing her through a goddamn _fence_—but he can't help it. The links taste bitter between them, but he can feel  
part of her lips through it. It's enough, for the moment. He wants to pull her closer but he can't get his arm through the links.

He wants to kick the fence but that will be the end of it—for her, too. He wouldn't risk her life for something so trivial. For anything, actually.

He slips two of his fingers through the link and places them over her heart, feeling it beat softly under the thin paper gown. She has instructed him to be quiet, but he has to tell her. "I love you," he  
whispers earnestly. It's the first time he's ever said it in his life, and he's never meant anything more.

She smiles slightly and holds her finger to her lips again. Then she reaches up, and slowly pulls on the fence, beside the pole. It peels away, and his eyes widen, as it acts like a makeshift gate. It has  
obviously been fixed by someone for this purpose.

She pulls the flap aside, towards her.

His heart pounds in his ears. He wants to rush through the hole and knock her against the wall, but he must be slow and silent. He forces himself to slowly maneuver through the gap, his bare foot  
sinking into the wild, unkempt grass and weeds, on the other side. Not even in his fantasies has he considered being able to do this, to be here.

Completely on the other side now. She pushes the flap back in place, and it blends acceptably with the post. It will probably hold under quick inspection.

She leans in, her lips by his ear. "We have an hour. Be quiet and copy me." Her hand takes his and he doesn't argue. They creep towards the preparations unit, where newcomers are taken. There are  
no guards by the door, and he wonders what she has done to affect this.

He decides he doesn't want to know.

_Click._ The door shuts behind them, and she turns the lock. Now there is an empty, dimly lit room (with light from the washing room). There is a gurney in the center, and she's walking towards him, smiling  
again, her fingers reaching for his waist. So direct.

"Wait," he whispers, and he reaches for the hem of her white paper shift. He wants to tear it away, but then she wouldn't have anything. It slides off, revealing the smooth skin he's been dreaming  
about. He finally gets to touch it, cup it, feel it under his fingers. Soft. Softest thing in this camp.

He presses against her so she can feel how he appreciates her figure, and she pulls back her upper body slightly, studies him, her eyes shifting back and forth in the dark. She looks—surprised? He  
can't tell. He doesn't need to know, right now as he backs her into the gurney and lifts her up on the edge, not sure what he's going to do. He's never done this before, what if he disappoints her? He  
thinks back to everything he knows on the subject and starts by pressing kisses down her shoulders.

He reaches her breasts, which fascinate him endlessly. He's never gotten to touch a boob before. He's always wondered what they feel like. Now he cups it, and feels compelled to explore it  
further. She seems to find this acceptable; after a while of nudging the center with his tongue he looks up and sees that her eyebrows are drawn together. For a second he's worried that it's a  
look of displeasure, but then she smiles at him, just slightly, and he continues, reassured that he is on the right path. He switches to the other swell and explores it, trying to find differences  
but failing. Her skin is flawless and soft.

"Lower," she whispers, and he realizes her breathing has changed. He puts his hand on her ribcage and feels that it is rising faster.

He smiles—he hasn't done that for a while. It almost hurts his face.

His fingers slip down her sides, to her hips, and he bends down. It's an awkward position, but he's not complaining. He kisses her stomach, her navel, then her hipbone, wondering if he'll know  
what to do. He wishes he had paid more attention to porn before. His heart pounds in his ears as he slides his tongue down to the center, the union of her legs, and tastes, closing his eyes.

It's like bananas, and strawberries. He hasn't had anything sweet for more than half a year now, and he realizes it makes him hungry. He licks it off her slowly, and her legs arch. He scoots closer and  
pulls them over his shoulders, then delves deeper into her, thinking he might explode just doing this. She's breathing heavier, trying to keep quiet, then he notes something is more pronounced and  
pays attention to it. She tosses her head back and makes a very soft noise, which he takes as a good sign. He continues, focusing his exploration on this area and suddenly she tenses her abdomen  
under his fingers, her breaths making soft _whuffs _in the still air.

"Stop," she whispers, a moment later, her hand on his shorn head. He looks up and catches her eyes, which are slightly glazed.

"Did you—"

She nods slightly, then takes his hand, on her abdomen, and pulls him up, so he is standing between her legs. He has again that thought that he might burst as she touches him, there, guiding him.

"…" he doesn't have a word for the feeling. She's so tight, squeezing him out as he tries to go in. His mind goes completely blank, completely instinctive, and he pushes all the way in. He lasts about  
three seconds, her hands gripping the muscles of his behind and squeezing.

"Uhh," he grunts involuntarily, his arms shaking and his stomach seizing. He feels like he's pushing his insides, blood, guts and all into her because it hurts. At the same time, it's the best feeling. He  
isn't finished and already he wants more.

X looks serious. "Be quiet," she whispers sternly in response, instead. Her hands slide up to his neck and tilting his head into her shoulder. He takes it into his mouth, needing something to hold.

"Do not do that again," she whispers.

It occurs to him that he hasn't heard her voice for a long time, her real voice. She's always whispering. He draws back and looks at her, wondering what she means. Then he understands.

It's something he's never had to think about before. He pants and wonders if even _this_ is going to turn against him. And her.

For a minute they stay like this, then he needs more, despite what they have just thought of. She lets him play with her a few more times (he is careful now) before she finally reaches for her shift.

"We must go back," she warns.

At the door, she stops, turns around, lays her hand on his shoulder. "Do not think about your friend," she whispers, her eyes gleaming in the dark.

He realizes he'd forgotten about Josh, for the duration of the hour. Does that make him a monster? His eyes burn again.

"But—"

"It was not your fault. He is in a better place now."

He feels better. X has told him what he needs to hear, like a command. She squeezes his hand then leads him into the darkness. He feels afraid again—he doesn't want to let go of her hand,  
doesn't want to be alone again. They are at the fence, though, and she draws back the section.

"I—thank you," he whispers. She _shhh's _him.

He looks at her as she smiles. Her teeth…her teeth are perfect again. None are missing. He stares, then dismisses it.

It's not important now.

They kiss one last time, then he reluctantly steps through the gap again. He wants to ask if he will see her again, like this, but when he turns around, she is gone. He stands for a moment, then  
creeps back to the Y quarters just as the guard's boot disappears around the corner. It's the end of the night watch, and the guards are changing. He slips in quickly and tiptoes back to his bed.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Yayayayay another chapter! I was busy, hence the delay in posting. Oh well, at least this chapter is enormous! ;-)

* * *

**  
-5-**

* * *

For a while, his life is almost pleasant. He replays the memories in his head, and comes up with things he wants to do to her, if he has another chance. This is what he thinks of while he  
works, and as he's falling asleep. He watches the building across intently, hoping for a glimpse.

The chance comes, an agonizing month later. One morning, the females are being led out at the same moment as the males, presumably for whatever work _they_ do. His eyes immediately scan  
the crowd intently, and finally he spots the pale-skinned girl. She is thinner—her bones are more prominent, and her breasts have dwindled away, but he still feels his heart beat faster. She  
stands out, to him. For a moment, her head turns—as if she can feel his stare—and her eyes catch his. _Shhh. _She smiles slightly and then looks away again.

No longer does he dream about fighting the guards, shutting down the camp, being a hero and a martyr. He dreams about taking her away.

**-x- **

Gunshots. The guards have stormed in, their faces set stonily. The commanding officer enters, an older man with silver hair and a stern face. Which is red with fury. His hand is a claw—a claw on  
X's shoulder. She is gagged, and her hands are bound behind her back, causing her belly to stick out. Or so he thinks, at first. Then it hits him like the cold spray from the hose in the washing room.

_No. _

"LINE UP!" the commander bellows.

A few minutes later they are lined up, outside, along the wall of the quarters. He is standing barefoot in almost knee high grass and weeds, as is X. He tries desperately not to look at her.

"WHO HAS BEEN WITH THIS SOW?!" the commander shouts, spitting and revealing gold fillings.

X looks at the ground, her eyebrows drawn together. He copies what the others are doing—staring at the commander—so he will not stand out.

The commander's fingers dig into the girl's shoulder, and he pulls his gun out of the holster. "NO ONE WILL CARE IF I ABORT THE ABOMINATION, THEN?" as he holds the firearm to her  
stomach and cocks the pistol.

He trembles involuntarily.

X looks up and her eyes find a shabby-looking man down the line. He recognizes him as one of the men who hurt him in his earlier days. The man had glanced up at her, not having seen  
a female in over a year.

_BANG! _The commander's pistol smokes, but it is not X who is hurt. The man stumbles back against the wall, leaving an arc of red in the air before him. X draws her eyebrows together even  
further, closes her eyes. Makes a sobbing noise. Convincing.

"There, you see?" the commander says to her, reholstering his pistol. "Have to watch you things constantly. You're like rabbits…left alone, you will breed and fill the earth with your genetic  
garbage." He redirects his glare on the lined-up boys.

"ANYONE FOUND IN CONTACT WITH A FEMALE WILL BE PUNISHED!"

He realizes the man isn't dead. He's lying, in the tall grass, holding a large red spot on his stomach, looking confused. The guards are walking towards him with a gag. They are going to torture him.

"LET THIS BE A LESSON!" the commander bellows.

For the next few hours, the air is split by the occasional scream, from the man, in the distance. He finds it hard to work, knowing that it should be _him_ in the grasp of the guards, having his flesh  
burnt off and blades worked through his body parts. And knowing something else.

He's doomed them both. X will never survive such an event, malnourished, and in here, and whatever it is she's carrying certainly won't have a fighting chance either. He feels like his chest  
is in a vice, as he thinks. Or maybe she'll be killed—or it will be—by the guards. In punishment.

They don't. Her punishment _is_ to suffer it through, malnourished, uncomfortable. He catches a glimpse of her when they are on their way back from the work house, and the male and female  
trains intersect. She looks strange—her stomach is distorted and grotesque, and the rest of her is so thin, he can see her bone structures for certain now. Her skin is like wax paper.

He decides something, and holds his hands up, curling two fingers. Meaning the fence. Hoping she understands. He is swept away by his coworkers before he can elaborate on this dangerous game of charades.

That night, he watches by the window. He has saved his potato and carrot, having hidden the bowl in a forgotten drawer on the work table. He has carried them back to the quarters in his palm; and  
as he passed the fence, around midnight, he dropped the food items without looking. They are now in the tall grass, hidden. He is hungry but he ignores it and watches.

_There_. A shadow in the dark. It rounds the corner, entering the dim moonlight. It is X, in her paper gown. He sees her creep towards the fence on all fours, almost hidden by the long grass.

She stands up and hooks her fingers in the links, looking at his window with question in her eyes.

More charades. He mimes patting the air, then makes a 'two' sign with his fingers and then tries to visually describe the food. She watches him, her face expressionless. He mimes eating a potato. "

He feels stupid.

He prays she will understand.

She does. X hunches over and begins to search, the grass ruffling around her. Suddenly she straightens, the potato in her fist; a moment later she holds up the carrot. It is lightly covered in grass,  
but it doesn't matter. She looks at him again, then creeps back into the darkness with her bounty.

He feels better, even though his stomach is eating itself.

**-x-**

"GET BACK TO WORK!" the guard screams, hurling a piece of metal at him. He has dropped the saw to examine his thumb, which is bleeding. He has finally cut himself. Not deep, thankfully—the blade  
just sunk into his flesh when he stopped, resisting the urge to jerk away and instead carefully maneuvering it out.

He is worried, though. The blade is rusty and unkempt, and the wound is stinging. His eyes smart from pain.

"DID YOU NOT HEAR ME?!" the guard waves his gun in the air. "Motherfucker, get back to _work, _you lazy—"

He picks up the sheet of metal again and rotates it, picks up the saw again. He watches his blood trickle down his skin and pool on the silver-colored metal in crimson red droplets.

His next sheet is shiny, like chrome. He sees himself—tired blue eyes, black stubble on his head (along with dull red scratches from the blade, which nicks him every week when the prisoners are re-shorn). He  
still has no facial hair. He was a late bloomer—he'd only begun adolescence around fourteen, and was still in the process of physically growing. The rest of him had begun to mature—some of it was almost  
finished—but he'd yet to start shaving.

_Drip. Drip. _He picks up the hacksaw, positions it at the line marked by Santo, in black paint, and begins to saw, back and forth. The worst part of this job is the sound of metal on metal. It hurts his teeth.

He was thinking about X when he'd hurt himself, no surprise. Every time he closed his eyes, he thought of her. He realizes that the feeling of horror and impending doom at her condition is all caused by  
their situation. He hasn't felt afraid of it in itself. He is surprised by this—he's still too young, too inexperienced. He hasn't had a job, finished school, even lived on his own. He doesn't know how to do  
household chores.

Maybe it _is_ this, this place, that makes him unafraid. He will never be afraid of anything else again. Very possibly because he will die here.

When he'd hurt himself, he'd been daydreaming. Daydreaming that they had escaped. He'd stolen the guard's gun and forced them to remove his microchip, then he'd taught them the meaning of fear. That  
part of the dream had been over quickly—he'd focused on the part where he escaped with X. He'd been thinking about being in a place, a place that was theirs. With a bed…and a washroom…and—he isn't  
sure about this—a crib. It was foggy, because he is uncertain, but it was there all the same.

Then he'd cut himself, and he'd returned to reality with a thrill of pain.

He finds it easy to save his lunch that day, because he isn't hungry. The potato is almost too heavy for him to carry, and he drops it gratefully in the grass beside the fence, hurries after the others.

He needs to lie down.

His hand is throbbing.

In bed, he shivers, cold under his thin sheet. He wants X, the girl who knows all about wounds and how to make them better. He wants her pressed up along his spine, keeping him warm and safe and…he  
looks up at the window, realizing she will be there soon. Searching for the food. He wonders how she avoids capture.

He waits, holding his injured hand in the air and trying to ignore the throbbing, burning feeling. He feels sick.

He passes out against the window before he can see her.

A hand, on his forehead. He opens his eyes as much as he can, which isn't much at all, and there is X, her lips pursed together, in an 'O' shape. _Shhh._ She is examining his hand critically.

He's not in the bunk room. He's in the preparation room, lying on the gurney.

There is a guard present, sneering at him, but his weapon is in his holster.

"So _you're_ the dog that got the bitch knocked up," he says, his arms folded. His voice is derisive. "Well, well. I oughta up my price, eh, 23? I see this little shit getting it for free…"

X is silent. She looks around the room, then moves to a table with a tray of bottles.

"Hold it right there!" the guard says. "What the fuck d'you think you're doing?"

"His hand is infected," X says, expressionless. "It needs to be disinfected."

"So cut it off," the man says. "Cauterize it."

"He will not be an effective worker with one hand," X says.

The guard considers this. "Whatever. Hurry. Don't picture the boss being happy if he catches me letting his inmates out of quarters."

X picks up a bottle and brings it to his side. "This is isopropyl alcohol. It will sting. Are you prepared?"

He blinks and nods. Anything would be better than this. He holds out his hand, grits his teeth as the liquid is poured, as it seems to burn a hole down his nerves. Strange thoughts form  
in his mind—_brick road, sun in a box, green sky_—dots swim in front of his vision, and he is barely conscious as X begins to wrap strips of none-stick gauzed around his appendage.

"Aight, let's get him out of here," the guard says. "Don't forget your deal."

X nods, reaches for his shoulder. "You need to stand up now, Y. Y." She smacks his face. He blinks but does not awake. She leans over and whispers in his ear.

"Julian."

His eyes open again and he looks at her, his eyebrows drawn together. "It hurts," he mumbles, confused. She takes him by the shoulder again and forces him into a sitting position, her  
stomach brushing his bare knee. He memorizes the feeling, stores it away for later. For now it's all he can do not to vomit fluid from his empty stomach. He hasn't eaten more than three  
bites of potato in the last four days, and is weak, but stubborn.

"He will need better food," X says sternly. "He will not heal unless he receives enough nutrients to repair the wound."

The guard sniffs. "Looks like he's fucked, then."

They walk to the fence, and the guard takes his weight on his shoulder. "You won't forget your promise?"

"No," X says, watching him intently as he struggles to remain upright. "I will double my offer if you will ensure he is fed."

The guard narrows his eyes. "Triple it, and I'll slip the cook ten bucks. That's the best you're gonna get from me, sow."

"Done." X turns her back. "Make sure he eats."

"You're a lucky fuck," the guard grunts as he half-drags him back to his quarters, the foot on the side of the injured hand not working as well. "She's _preggos,_ and she's insisting that _you_ eat.  
Wish _my_ wife was like that. Well…not a mutie but…"

**-x-**

It is two weeks after this event, and his hand has actually healed, helped by the disinfecting action of the alcohol, that the firing squad begins.

"EVERYBODY OUT!" the guard screams. Gunshots into the air, bursting holes in the roof that will leak when it rains.

He sits straight up, his heart pounding. He's just had the dream, again, where X is pressed against his back, a bullet in her forehead. Bleeding on his neck. And now this.

Needless to say, he is unsettled.

"I freakin' hate the alarm clocks here," Santo whispers as he passes by him.

He agrees, but doesn't say so. Instead he bolts out of bed and joins the herd of boys and men filing through the exit.

"LINE UP! LINE UP!!!"

Against the barn wall again.

The prisoners exchange fearful looks. Their backs find the walls, and the commander arrives. He paces up and down the line, his pistol drawn, his face full of black hate.

"Do you know how my daughter died?" he growls.

Everyone is silent.

"Raped. Raped, by five ravenous mutants with dog mutations. Then eaten. She was sixteen years old!" He spits as he talks.

Then he stops, glares at the line. "This was two nights ago."

_Oh, Christ_, he thinks. He's afraid to breathe.

"I don't care what the government wants," the commander continued. "They can take as long as they want to piss around. We have to end this _now,_ and it ends with _you. _GUARDS!" He  
barks to his men. "Take those I mark out to the woods and shoot them in the head. And leave them for the wolves."

_Oh, Christ…_

The commander walks up and down the line, then points his pistol at someone down the line. He moves a few more steps, points, and repeats. Then his gun points to Santo, whose eyes  
bulge under the craggy eyebrows.

…

He feels like he's full of pressurized air. He's an overfilled balloon, a container filled to its maximum, and he's going to burst.

_X. _

He stays silent, his back ramrod straight. He can't leave her alone, with her burden. He has to be alive, to get her out of here.

He has to betray his friend.

Then the gun points to him. He stares back at the commander, with wide eyes, and realizes he knows this man. He's seen him, at his billion-dollar villa, sipping brandy with his father and  
laughing in the sun. He knows—or knew—his daughter. He dated her, for a while, and the commander had liked him.

His name is Ted Neilson.

Ted doesn't know his name now. He is just a prisoner in paper clothes, an assortment of 206 bones loosely wrapped in muscle and skin.

An animal to be executed.

The guards grab his arm, at the bicep, and pull him away. He wants to explain that this is all a mistake, see? He can't be killed, he has to stay. He has a job to do, a  
responsibility. A purpose to be alive. To take care of X.

Maybe X doesn't need him, he tries to reassure himself. Maybe X is self-sufficient, and won't even notice he is dead. _Dead._ Oh, god, in a few minutes he will be, and there's nothing he can do.

They are made to walk for about three miles, their hands bound to a long rope to prevent any would-be escapers. Like himself. It is rope because a real chain would be too heavy for these  
malnourished prisoners to carry. He looks desperately for rocks on the road—he thinks, they could suddenly try to surround the guards with the rope and squeeze them to death—but he  
can't get the order out. He'll be shot, and no one will listen because they're too afraid.

And there's not enough of them, only about six malnourished people to three heavily-armed guards.

They enter the woods, stepping over branches, hearts pounding in their throats. This is it, the end. "LINE UP!" the lead guard screams, waving his pistol. "Any last words before we blow your brains out?"

The air is split by insults from some of the mutants. There are many 'Your mother' comments. He stays perfectly quiet, perfectly still, thinking only that he is sorry. Sorry for everything he's  
ever done, for every person he's ever treated wrong, for ever existing. For leaving X with such a terrible burden. He finishes these thoughts, then straightens again and watches as the  
guards line up, their rifles—yes, rifles—pointed at the men.

_BLAM! _His eyes open. His face is wet, and a sharp pain sears through him. He falls to his knees, along with his neighbors, and everything fades away.

He's at his villa, and he's getting that drink from the kitchen, like his mother was never waiting for him in the hallway, with soldiers. He pops the tab on the can and fills his mouth with the  
coolness. But something's wrong, he can't taste it.

He puts the can down and looks in the fridge. There's nothing but potatoes, and carrots. He turns around and sees that the plates on the table are all metal bowls. He picks one up and looks at  
his reflection. He's thin, his blue eyes are tired, and there is a hole in his forehead. It doesn't gush blood. It drips, slowly, into the chrome of the bowl, like cranberry juice.

He coughs, and realizes something is tickling his nose. A bug. He wrinkles it, willing it to go away, then reaches up to bat it off.

_His shoulder!_

"UGGGHN," he moans, opening his eyes for real and rolling over. There is a butterfly on his nose, a big white one, flapping its wings and staring at him with its buggy eyes.

He blinks. The butterfly takes off and he claps his hand to his shoulder, realizing he has been shot. But he is alive.

_The firing squad. _

He sits upright, despite his injury, and sees that he is attached to a line of dead men, all covered in red, except for Santo, which is simply a pile of unanimated rock. Tears well up in his eyes,  
and he scrambles over to his friend.

The birds are singing, up in the trees. The guards are gone.

"I'm sorry," he says, in a speaking voice, his voice cracking and going from low to high. He hasn't spoken out loud for almost a year and it almost hurts. His mouth is dry. He steels himself, then  
reaches over with his cuffed hands and rubs the knot over Santo's craggy shoulder. Again and again and again…

With a dull, clothey noise the rope breaks apart, and he is free. He feels it like a weight. If he wanted, he could run, run and never look back. Live in the wild. Or seek out civilization, pretend to  
be human. It wouldn't be hard, in a different area, with the microchip in his head, and his name recorded under death records.

_X. _

He scrambles to his feet, holding his bleeding shoulder, and stumbles back towards the camp, his teeth gritted. He will not leave her.

**-x-**

Footsteps, marching, on the road ahead. He barely has time to duck behind a tree when the soldiers come into view, a line of women bound at the wrists, their heads bowed. He sees her  
instantly—the first one—the only one with a thickened waist, making her look deceptively nourished.

He presses back against the bark, ignoring the pain in his shoulder except for pressing on the wound with his hand. He can worry over it later. Right now, he is driven by pure will.

He follows the troop, traveling slightly behind them, in the trees. He stumbles a few times, disorientated by the blood loss. _No. Keep going. Keep going. _A large fly chases him, drawn to the  
smell of his blood, and he is scared. A wolf might find him. They are in a mountainous, forested area; a temperate rainforest. There could easily be wolves here.

The three guards continue to walk, past where he was shot, ever onwards, to a set of trees, deep in the woods. "STOP!" the senior guard yells.

The women stand in a line, their faces pale. Some chins tremble. X is calm, her green eyes wide open and watchful, studying the men.

She knows what is going to happen.

He sees it a minute later.

"Just because the Commander told us to execute you…doesn't mean we have to do it _right away,_" the lead guard says, with a slight smile. "Every second you suck our cocks, bitches, is another  
second you get to live. So get to work."

He picks up a rock, a hefty rock, with his good arm, and draws it back, to throw it at the man's head. X does that thing with her lips—the _shhh._

The guard takes it for something else and grins. "That's it, you've got the idea. On your knees, sows, and open wide."

He mimes attacking. She looks away, shaking her head slightly as she goes down on her knees with the other females. They have learned long since arriving at this internment camp to be subservient.

The head guard approaches X and touches her chin. "Aww, how sad. You're gonna _die. _This'll cheer you up." _Zipp. _His pants drop to the ground, and—he digs his fingernails into the tree angrily,  
seeing her comply, like a dog. Licking, and taking him in, closing her eyes…

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! FUCKING HELL!" The guard throws his head back and pulls away, leaving an arc of blood in the air. X looks up at him with her livid green eyes and spits blood into the grass.

"What the hell?!" Guards are zipping up, some stumbling over their dropped pants to reach their leader, who is lying on the ground, holding his crotch.

He feels nauseous. But it was a brilliant tactical move.

"SHOOT HERRR," the leader orders, kicking his legs in pain.

He sees it in slow motion. The guard closest to the leader turns around, pulls his pistol out of his holster, and aims it at X. Between the eyes.

_BLAM. _

_I never even knew her name. _

She falls back, her head hitting the tree, and she is gone. He is gone, too. He leaps into motion just as the other guns go off in muffled _paffs, _like firecrackers.

The women fall to the ground, one by one, about five in total.

He reaches the injured guard just as the last woman falls to her knees, and he hauls the pistol out of his belt, raises it. The one thing he _doesn't _regret—hunting with his father on vacations.

_BLAM. _The guard that shot X falls to his knees, a curl of smoke wafting up from his helmet where the bullet has caused friction to the metal. The other guard pales and turns as he is  
aiming. The man swings his rifle towards him.

"I'll fuckin' shoot you, you—" he says.

They pull the triggers at the same time. The man misses, but his shot doesn't, and the guard stumbles backwards and trips on a body, his throat sporting a large hole. He makes horrible gurgling noises.

"And _you, _you piece of shit," he says, looking at the guard on the ground, who holds up his hand. "Puh-please…I have a wife…kids…they won't understand…"

His eyes narrow. He doesn't answer. He turns the pistol sideways and pulls the trigger with a click. The bullet leaves the chamber, shoots down the barrel and into the man's eye so  
hard his body rolls over in the other direction.

He stares dully at X, the gun lying in the grass at his feet. There is one bullet left.

The question is, who to shoot it with? Go back and shoot the commander? Or just shoot himself?

Who to kill?

There is no place for martyrs in this world.

He bends over, kisses her lightly, then picks her up, the gun in his hand again, and half-drags her deeper into the woods. She will not be wolf bait. He will bury her first.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** OMG, my life is a mess, lol. In no particular order, my troubles include relationship (breakup/new one/etc--still trying to sort everything out), health (killer flu--lost my voice now and can't work!--along with another problem), school, and all 3 of my computers breaking down. Luckily I managed to salvage all my stories from the computer I was writing on. I'm updating on another computer right now and it's more difficult to do than before; so please bear with my now slow updates. I haven't abandoned any stories.

Thanks, you guys rock! I will post this note on all stories that are in progress.

_**SPECIAL NOTE FOR THIS STORY: **This chapter concludes Prisoner Y. There is a sequel coming soon--Prisoner X. Keep your eyes peeled for it if you liked this one ;-)_

* * *

**-6-  


* * *

**

He is breathing heavily, his bare hands tearing into the dirt. He has broken fingernails, cut himself on concealed rocks, but he must get deeper. Six feet, at least. He will  
not accept less for her, because the wolves will not.

He has considered the infant, looking at her stomach, but can't bear to cut the skin open. Especially since she is only three months along. From the biology courses he's  
taken, he knows it would be just a small curl of flesh he could hold in his palm, something he isn't equipped to develop like she is.

Was.

He breathes harder, his hand encountering a large rock, and he rips it out, running on pure adrenaline now. He has to. When it runs out, he will succumb to the horror of  
what he has seen, become weak and unable to finish his task.

To bury the dead.

He notes that the rock is flat, and he uses it to dig. He breathes harder and harder, his lungs burning for oxygen. Then he realizes that there are _two_ sets of breathing,  
and the other is shallower.

Stopping, he turns to look at X.

The hole in her forehead is gone, and her face has color to it. Also, her hair is almost an inch long, and before his eyes he can see it growing, along with her flesh. Filling in the hollows.

He's never seen a pair of breasts grow, before, but he considers it to be the best thing ever. He drops the rock and scrambles to her side, sweat running down his  
nose in rivulets. "X? X? Are you…"

She doesn't answer. He reaches out and pinches her nostrils, something his nanny used to do when he wouldn't eat something.

Her lips part.

"X!" he says, his heart beating in his ears. He can't wrap his mind around it. He must be dreaming. There's no way this could happen in real life.

He must still be back at the camp, feverish.

"…urr…" she says, her eyes opening slowly. She looks at him, her eyebrows drawn together. "Wha…"

"Oh my god," he says, touching her face. Her throat. Looking for her carotid artery. He needs to feel her pulse, now, under his fingers, telling him that this is real, that  
she is really alive. Like pinching, to check if he is dreaming. She pulls her head away in resistance, her eyelids half closed.

"Jesus."

He buries his face against her breasts and listens. _Da-dump, da-dump, da-dump…_it is real. Her fingers are on his scalp.

"You…you are bleeding," she says, sitting up, still holding his head in mid-air.

"It's nothing."

She pauses. "The bullet has clipped the axillary artery. You are quickly losing blood and will die of blood loss without medical attention."

He stares at her. "Well…well…I've got nothing. What do we do?"

"You require first aid." X wipes blood off her face. "We will need to…"

Now that she has mentioned it, and now that the adrenaline has worn off, he's starting to feel it. He feels weak, and confused. "Uh…how did…" he collapses in a bloody heap,  
his hand waving in the air.

"…whazzit…" he sighs and opens his eyes from his dreamless sleep. He is lying in a very sterile white room—a hospital, a _real_ hospital—with a sheet over his waist and legs,  
and multiple tubes hooked up to his body. There is a breathing tube down his throat and he begins to gag, trying to fight past it for air.

"Remain calm." Fingers, at his lips, prying the apparatus out. He opens his bulging eyes—it's X, her long hair falling over her shoulders and onto his chest as she struggles to  
remove the equipment. A second later it is out and he takes a deep breath of air, a gasp, trying to ignore how horrible his throat feels.

"Awwrk…urr…" he says, not a very intelligent comment. Her fingers move down his body, removing monitoring nodes. She is speaking again.

"We must leave. I did not tell them the truth but they are suspicious…I heard them speaking in the lobby, well after you were admitted. Hurry."

He cranes his neck, looks at the huge gauze bandage on his shoulder. "Am I going to be ok, off this shit?"

"Yes. Hurry." X straightens, and he realizes she is wearing _clothes,_ real clothes. He's only ever seen her in a paper gown. She has a black, oversized t-shirt and a pair of jeans,  
low on her hips to accommodate her front.

He sits up and helps her pick needles out of his forearm. He notes that there is a bandage conveniently covering his tattoo.

She walks to the chair, reaches into a bag and then tosses something at him. A bundle—clothing. He scrambles to get them on, still light-headed. "How long have I been out?" he asks.

"A week." X looks serious. "They decided they will confront you as soon as you are out of critical care. The machine has a sensor to alert the nurse, which is why we must leave immediately."

"Jesus Christ. Let's go."

He heads for the door.

"No. Here." X is by the window, struggling with the lock, the bag now slung around her shoulder at her side. She makes a fist, and he watches in astonishment as two blades of metal  
slide out, about six inches long each. Very sharp. She slides one through the lock, and the window bursts open.

"You can't be serious." He finds her eyes. "Okay, fine, you are…but…X…my shoulder is completely busted…"

"Hold onto me," she says, putting her leg through the window.

He steps towards the window. "But _you're_ pregnant," he says, saying the word aloud for the first time.

"It does not mean I am not capable," she remarks, her arm outside the window. She ducks her head, reaches around and stabs the outer wall; he hears a _crunch _as she jams her claws  
into the stucco surface. "Are you coming?" she asks.

He copies her, stepping out into nothingness.

"Climb onto my back," she instructs. "And hold on."

**-x-**

They are sitting on a bench in the park, watching the sun as it sets, slowly, illuminating the backs of geese grazing on the grass.

X looks as if nothing ever happened, how she must have appeared before the camp. Her hair is long and silky with a just-brushed sheen and some slight curls; her cheeks are full, her eyes  
bright and intelligent. She seems to glow, too, from within.

_Fuck me, _he thinks. Although he's always been interested in _girls, h_e's always made fun of _love. _It's stupid, he thought, how his friends for allowing themselves to be wrapped around their  
girlfriend's pinky finger like a piece of string. He'd been disgusted. Now he's not sure what to think, but he's aware that he couldn't be happier than he is at this particular place in time.

They got away.

X watches him warily. She's obtained make-up, and her eyes are lined in black, her lips painted with a dark, purplish color. He likes the way she looks without it, but he can't say he doesn't  
like _this_ as well. She's definitely not one of the little cheerleaders he used to lust over at his school.

"We must part ways," she says, her lips curled in a frown. "Two separate targets are harder to track, should we be pursued. I will be leaving tomorrow."

"No!" he says, aghast. "X—no fucking way!"

"It makes tactical sense," she says. "Do as I suggest, and leave. Travel as far as is possible. Do not return to your home, by any means."

"Out of the question."

"It is not a question." X looks ahead of her, annoyed. "Do you not trust me? I have been correct about everything up to now—"

"Not that! I don't _care_ if it's dangerous! I—I don't want to live without you," he admits in a small voice, feeling stupid. "You have no idea…X…I made it through the last few months of that for—"

"No." X glares at him. "You cannot think like that. We must separate. Perhaps tomorrow is not soon enough."

"You love me, too!" he argues, realizing she's never said it. He's never stopped to wonder if she cared, he just felt it. "You wouldn't care about keeping me safe if you didn't!"

"No." X presses her lips together in a firm line for a moment. "Not only will it be unsafe, but you will slow me down."

"And the kid? That's not going to slow you down at all?" he asks.

She wavers. "No. It will not."

"X…please, don't." He reaches over and takes her hand; her lips part and she looks down at their joined appendages. "I can't get over this without you."

"…" she continues to stare. "You must."

"I can't," he says, gripping her hand hard. "Please?"

X doesn't answer for a while. Finally, she does.

"You would be in danger," she says.

"Of course," he says. A slow grin splits his face. "My life would be pretty boring without it." He squeezes her hand, and realizes that, no matter what she's been through before, no  
matter what _he's _been through, they are just two teenagers whose pulse increases over hand-holding. He presses her hand to his boney cheek and watches her dark-rimmed eyes.

"Alright." She looks displeased with herself, for giving in. "I do not feel right about this, but alright. We must strategize. We—"

He leans over and silences her, like he's always wanted to do when she's being so serious and technical (but couldn't, for fear of exposing them). She doesn't push him away, instead  
her hand with its black-painted fingers cups the back of his head, and the other slowly, instinctively slides up his side. Over his ribs, prominent like a washing board as it's only been a  
little more than a week since the internment camp. A week spent mostly in the hospital, on IV fluids.

**-x-**

They are in a room, a dark room, sitting at a small table and looking at each other. There is a device on the table, a metal detector, as well as a tray of instruments, and some  
bottles of fluid. As well as a book on brain surgery.

"This is going to hurt like hell," he says, trying to be a man about it. It's hard.

"It will only be your scalp. I will apply the local anesthetic, if you wish. It is not necessary, really, because your brain does not have sensory receptors." X looks at him. "It is  
necessary. There may be a tracking device."

He looks down. "What if you hurt something?"

"I won't," X says firmly. "My hand is steady. Are you prepared?"

He closes his eyes and nods. "Just do it."

X gets up, turns on a light and places it on the table. "Do not move, at all. The only way I will misjudge the incision is if you flinch."

"Okay. Wait." He's thought of something. He grabs her hand as she rubs anesthetic on his temple, right in front of his ear.

"What's your name? Your real name, I mean? I want to know…in case I…" he looks at her with pleading eyes. The first thought he had, when he saw her being shot. He must know.

X hesitates. "Laura," she says, her voice quiet.

He studies her. It's like learning God's true name. If there is a god at all, which he severely doubts. "Laura," he repeats, trying the name out. He likes it, he decides. Another way to  
describe the entity he's entwined with. He releases her hand.

"Go ahead," he says.

He keeps his eyes open as she makes a fist and releases her claws into the air, then brings them to his head very carefully and begins to cut. He keeps his eyes wide open, flexing his  
fingers, as the book instructed; he keeps his head pressed to the makeshift brace on the chair. It is vital that he doesn't move.

They are removing the microchip.

X—Laura—holds a tiny magnet near his open flesh, to attract the microchip that might allow the camp to locate them.

The removal of X's chip, by bullet, allowed her to heal. By theory, this means he will be able to use _his_ powers again, too. He shouldn't be excited about this, but he is. He knows he can't  
ever use them again, though.

Unless they get cornered.

X leans over momentarily. _Clink. _He stares at a white piece of shiny substance in the sterile tray—bone. His bone. He shifts his eyes away, trying not to freak out. He wishes he could keep  
them closed, but he's scared that if he does, he won't open them again. So he doesn't.

"There," she says suddenly. She leans over again and holds, between her rubber-gloved fingers, a tiny grain of rice. Metal rice. It drops to the pan with a _clink, _and she reaches for the  
piece of bone again, along with the materials she will use to fuse it to the rest of his skull.

**-x-**

He wakes up, late at night, sweating. Tense. He's just had the dream, where X's head is pressed against his neck, her arms around his ribs, keeping his spine warm. His neck is wet—from  
the hole in her forehead. Blood. She is cold. The dream shifts, so he's seeing her slumped against the tree, sporting the same injury.

The dream goes on. It's red, and loud, and in his head.

When he wakes up, he's the one holding her, and she's warm, her heart beating under his hand. He slips his hand down, to the swell, holds it there to make sure it's still beating, too.

"Is something wrong?" X murmurs, her head turning.

"No," he lies, his face pressed in her shoulder, the bandaged part of his head away from the pillow. His eyes are wet. He saw all the people he couldn't save, and would never be able to.

"You are crying," she remarks, turning over.

"I am not," he says, trying to sound annoyed.

"My neck is wet," she says. "Y—Julian—you must let it go. It is not necessary to regret the casualties at the camp…it was not your mission to protect them."

"I still feel like shit!" he says. "They are—were good people—who—didn't have to die." His voice cracks on the last part. "I just stood there and watched."

"There is nothing you could have done. You must put your regret aside." X's voice is firm, stern. She is afraid he will not do what needs to be done if they are cornered. She is afraid he will  
allow himself to be captured, to help others. To be a martyr. X knows there is no place for martyrs in this world, knows it very well.

Although there are things she does not know. Such as depths of emotions as the boy demonstrates, at times. She doesn't know what it _is_ to be a martyr, having nothing she would die for.

She has a thought, then reaches down and presses his hand to her stomach. "You must focus. The…infant will require your attention. You cannot allow yourself to be distracted."

He blinks.

"Okay," he says. His fingers tighten slightly on her stomach, and he pulls her closer, burying his face in her neck.

"I love you," he says.

She pauses.

"I love you, too," X says, sensing it's what he needs to hear.


End file.
